But you don’t want to get campylobacter. I won’t. You’ll be sick for weeks. Might have to take antibiotics.
Stop. Then you’ll get C. diff. Or you’ll get Epstein-Barr from the campylobacter. Stop.
That could paralyze you, all because you kissed him when you didn’t even actually want to
because it’s fucking gross, inserting your tongue into someone else’s mouth.
“Are you there?” he asked. “What, yeah,” I said. “I asked how you’re feeling.”
“Good,” I said. “Honestly not good right now, but good in general.”
“Why not good right now?” “Can you sit across from me?” “Um, yeah, of course.”
He got up and moved around to the opposite bench, which made me feel better. For a moment, anyway.
“I can’t do this,” I said. “Can’t do what?” “This,” I said.
“I can’t, Davis. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. Like, I know you’re waiting for me to get better,”
“and I really appreciate all your texts and everything. It’s... it’s incredibly sweet,”
“but, like, this is probably what better looks like for me.”
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